“Just as I foresaw—­excuses—­postponement.  What woman ever had the sense of honour!”

To get through the morning he drank—­an occupation suggested by the heat of the day, which blazed cloudless.  The liquor did not cheer him, but inspired a sullen courage, a reckless resolve.  And in this frame of mind he presented himself before Patty Ringrose.

“She can’t go to-day,” said Patty, with an air of concern.  “You were quite right—­she is really ill.”

“Has she gone out?”

“No, she’s upstairs, lying on the bed.  She says she has a dreadful headache, and if you saw her you’d believe it.  She looks shocking.  It’s the second night she hasn’t closed her eyes.”

A savage jealousy was burning Hilliard’s vitals.  He had tried to make light of the connection between Eve and that unknown man, even after her extraordinary request for money, which all but confessedly she wanted on his account.  He had blurred the significance of such a situation, persuading himself that neither was Eve capable of a great passion, nor the man he had seen able to inspire one.  Now he rushed to the conviction that Eve had fooled him with a falsehood.

“Tell her this.”  He glared at Patty with eyes which made the girl shrink in alarm.  “If she isn’t at Charing Cross Station by a quarter to eleven to-morrow, there’s an end of it.  I shall be there, and shall go on without her.  It’s her only chance.”

“But if she really can’t——­”

“Then it’s her misfortune—­she must suffer for it.  She goes to-morrow or not at all.  Can you make her understand that?”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Listen, Patty.  If you bring her safe to the station to-morrow you shall have a ten-pound note, to buy what you like in Paris.”

The girl reddened, half in delight, half in shame.

“I don’t want it—­she shall come——­”

“Very well; good-bye till to-morrow, or for good.”

“No, no; she shall come.”

He was drenched in perspiration, yet walked for a mile or two at his topmost speed.  Then a consuming thirst drove him into the nearest place where drink was sold.  At six o’clock he remembered that he had not eaten since breakfast; he dined extravagantly, and afterwards fell asleep in the smoking-room of the restaurant.  A waiter with difficulty aroused him, and persuaded him to try the effect of the evening air.  An hour later he sank in exhaustion on one of the benches near the river, and there slept profoundly until stirred by a policeman.

“What’s the time?” was his inquiry, as he looked up at the starry sky.

He felt for his watch, but no watch was discoverable.  Together with the gold chain it had disappeared.

“Damnation! someone has robbed me.”

The policeman was sympathetic, but reproachful.

“Why do you go to sleep on the Embankment at this time of night?  Lost any money?”

Yes, his money too had flown; luckily, only a small sum.  It was for the loss of his watch and chain that he grieved; they had been worn for years by his father, and on that account had a far higher value for him than was represented by their mere cost.